


The Care and Keeping of Sherlock Holmes

by johnlockhedgehog149



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Caring John, Emotional Sex, Fluff, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29059797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnlockhedgehog149/pseuds/johnlockhedgehog149
Summary: After the case, John takes care of his detective.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 61





	The Care and Keeping of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to simplyclockwork and drfish for last-minute beta assistance so I could post today. This is my very first time posting anything with sexy times in it, please enjoy!

The flat was always cluttered when they returned from a case. Chairs and tables lay strewn with notably more than the usual detritus - pens and papers, books and files, clues on every surface connected by trails of red string, back and forth and back and forth again throughout the space like a laserized spy movie obstacle. Various teacups, most filled to the brim with untouched tea, sat abandoned in whatever free space there had been for them to be set, sometimes even on the floor. Then there were the experiments - trails of gunpowder, or blood samples on clothespins, or maybe some dubiously legal menagerie of toxic plants. Whatever was needed for the answers unknown, left behind at the drop of a hat the moment insight was gained or proved irrelevant, the hazardous droppings of a brilliant mind. Sometimes there was medical debris - bandage wrappings and used cotton swabs colored with blood and disinfectant, all thrown aside after a hasty patch-up and regroup. The rooms of 221b Baker Street were never neat, but in the aftermath of a case, they were a war zone.

Sherlock was always abuzz as they crossed through the door, recounting deductions and facts like a child athlete reliving the highlights of his sports tournament en route to an ice cream parlor for a celebratory cone. He’d hang up his coat with a “John, did you see this?”, and trip over some clutter with an, “Oh, John, you must have seen that!” Sometimes the man would even call out from the loo mid-piss with a, “But really, John, can you believe…,” speeding into a train of thought with more energy and poise than his lack of sleep and nutrition ought to be capable of supporting.

The answer was always yes, to every last “John, did you see?” Because John always did see, continuously transfixed by every brilliant moment, hypertuned to every last word flung from the detective’s lips. From every step of his feet to every dramatic swish and swoosh of his persona, to every heartbeat and emotion of the man hidden beneath it, John Watson _always_ saw.

It was like corralling an oversized puppy. A difficult feat given that John, in only some respects, mind you, was an arguably undersized man. Sherlock was all arms and legs and height, spinning about with complete disregard for his surroundings, knocking over the clutter he himself had created with the transport he’d neglected for days.

Eventually Sherlock would end up in the shower - always the shower first, because at the end of the day he truly was vain. And while the accumulated dirt and blood and grime was a necessary evil of the work, Sherlock preferred himself polished and poised and smelling of expensive shampoo, posh curls tangle-free. When the case was an emotional one, John was likely to join him, stepping under the hot spray with his detective to wash away mistakes and human cruelties with dedicated hands. Sherlock was more sullen on those occasions, often wandering his Mind Palace until John could coax him forth with kisses and reassurances.

Those cases were the minority, another necessary evil in capturing the high that Sherlock chased. Not every puzzle can be solved, or has an answer one would care to know. Regardless, Sherlock Holmes was always there, compulsively seeking answers in the darkest of situations. And unflinchingly, John was and would always be there to repair him when the flavors of the unknown brought forth a bitter taste.

Luckily, the majority of their cases were triumphant ones. Yes, there were deaths involved. This never changed. But there also were innocents exonerated and deductive feats achieved, and that was the high they lived for. That high, however, can only carry one’s transport so far. John could expect a different Sherlock to emerge from the shower than the one he had sent into it. So he used that time to tidy up for the care that would come next, clearing the couch and pouring out the teacups, setting aside experiments and untangling red string from everything in the room. Sherlock’s showers were long, which was all for the better. As such it allowed more time to order the take-out and await its arrival, as well as more time to carve out a livable space in which to eat. Sherlock would return to a sitting room he could sit in, which at this point in the proceedings was exactly what he would require.

John never minded the tidying. Many would joke of him “being the wife”, he knew. But that never concerned him. Their relationship was so much more than that, so much more than any other relationship he had ever known. There were no clear cut roles beyond “Sherlock” and “John”, and at different times those had the capacity to mean different things. And it was all fine because they each knew where they stood, and they stood best together. Every bit of care was reciprocated in its own way, a symbiosis too perfectly balanced to have been anything other than fate by design.

Sherlock would plod from the shower in his dressing gown and lounge trousers, clean on the outside and running on empty within. There was never enough sleep and there was never enough food, and by now, it was showing. Lord only knows how Sherlock survived before John’s care.

Sherlock would flop onto the couch with his gown spread about him, bringing to exhaustion a dramatic flair. John allowed him these moments, because after all the outward exclamations and deductions, John knew Sherlock had considerations to see to within. No doubt Sherlock’s mind was more cluttered than the flat, a palace of disarray to be tidied by Sherlock alone. John would grab a quick shower, militarily efficient even as he gave Sherlock space. A straight bar of soap and a basic shampoo was enough for John Watson, and it was never long before he’d be out and cozied up in a clean robe and slippers.

A quick kiss to drying curls was usually enough to pull Sherlock forth from his contemplations, dragging the man upright enough to allow space on the couch for two. John could slide behind him and settle them together in that special way they fit, take-out just in reach. John always ordered the same post-case meal: soup and dumplings, filling and much to Sherlock’s taste. The best way to feed a Sherlock, John had found, was to bring the food directly to him. So with the taller man relaxed between his knees, head pillowed on John’s chest, John would bite off half a dumpling and offer the remaining half to waiting Cupid’s Bow lips. Even from the depths of Sherlock’s Mind Palace, the lips would part, and a tongue would accept the offering, restoring nutrition to the transport once again.

After the dumplings came the soup, a hearty broth with vegetables. Every warm spoonful brought to those lips would be accepted, too, often slowly to savor the flavor and warmth. John loved these moments, so quiet, so warm, so perfect, _together_. It brought John overwhelming peace to have the thing he loved most in his arms, cared for by his hands. Their love was art, and this was how John crafted it - through closeness and tender care.

Once the soup was finished it was time for the cookie. John would always ask the question and Sherlock would crack open one eye with the smallest crook of a smile as he deduced some cookie cutter promise of the future that held nothing to the moment they were living in the now. The cookie Sherlock would bring to his own lips, needing no assistance when it came to sweets. John would always listen for the crunch and wonder how the man could be so fascinating even when doing something as simple as chewing. Every little thing about him was enthralling, and God, John could never be bored with this.

“Do you know what my favorite part of the case was?” John would invariably ask, massaging his fingers along Sherlock’s scalp, through raven curls. And Sherlock would listen, humming occasionally to demonstrate so, as John recalled the moments when Sherlock was at his most beautiful, his most baffling, most brilliant. No one had ever done this for Sherlock before John - carded their fingers through his hair and told him he was good at things. Told him he’d done well, told him he was loved. It was the greatest honor of John’s life to ensure Sherlock never went without again.

“Let’s take a look at you,” John would announce. Sherlock would let John slide out to sit on the coffee table, just across from him so that their knees were touching. John would check him over. Look at Sherlock’s face, check his arms, scan for any cuts or bruises he wasn’t already aware of. John would feel from Sherlock’s shoulders down his sides, all the way along his legs and down to his feet. Sherlock would insist he was fine, and usually he was. Anything uncovered was seen to, usually with a plaster and some antiseptic. And it was always then that John would find himself on the floor, between Sherlock’s knees, hands petting over Sherlock’s thighs.

“Did I tell you how brilliant you were tonight?” John would ask with a smile, to which Sherlock would nod, blush blooming on his cheeks. “Have I told you how much I love you?” John always questioned next, earning another nod and drawing color to posh cheekbones . And then John would undo the drawstring of Sherlock’s bottoms, _slowly_ , until both strings lay open and the fabric could be stretched just so. He would pull Sherlock out, exposing him above his waistband, cradling the detective’s most delicate parts with the most delicate care.

And oh, the look in Sherlock’s eyes. Because it always came down to that look, that disbelief, that wonder of _how can you be loving me_ , _how can you want to do this for **me**_? Sherlock Holmes was confident and all-encompassing, but in this moment he was always soft and small, fragile and unable to believe himself deserving, and that was what John was made for. John was made to love Sherlock, to love him and care for him until he believed himself to be lovable, and then to love him even more. Sherlock Holmes couldn’t care for himself. Sherlock Holmes didn’t love himself. But gods in heaven, John Watson could, and did, and does, and would forever.

It was John’s name that would fall from Sherlock’s lips, as John took him in his mouth, as John made him feel beloved. John would lick, from the base to the tip, circling around just to Sherlock’s preference. John would kiss, and suckle, and work his way down until he couldn’t go down farther, and then he would press a bit farther still. Because every moan, every cry, every last sound he could wring from this brilliant man was worth the effort, precious honey sweet baritone vibrating from the depths of that glorious neck, extended long with Sherlock’s head thrown back… and they would build to it together, two as one, until they both found his release.

And Sherlock… unfazed by the most gruesome of crime scenes but embarrassed by his own issue, quick to wipe any traces from John’s lips with apologies and a blush spread to his chest. And John would kiss that blush, would follow it up the length of Sherlock’s neck, to his cheeks, and then to his lips so Sherlock could taste himself and blush an even deeper hue.

Sometimes, Sherlock would provide his hand, bringing John to a fast climax with long fingers that knew exactly how to pleasure, both a scientist’s and an artist’s to John’s skin. But more often than not, the detective’s transport would give in, fed and spent and ready to claim the rest it so desperately needed. This was perfectly fine, as there was a post-case morning shag on the horizon that would more than suffice John’s needs, and John was usually just as tired after everything they’d been through.

John would help Sherlock to their bed, gangly arm slung over his shoulders until the mattress was within reach. John would pull back the covers and they would slide in, warm and safe and comfortable and _together_. They would fall into a tangle, arms and legs intertwined, each holding the other in some way. And the whirlwind detective would finally drift to sleep, like a gentle boat in calm waters, quiet and serene. But no matter how long he’d gone without, how desperately his body was pulling to slip over into rest, Sherlock always found a moment to say it.

_“I love you, John.”_

An exhalation.

_“I love you, John.”_

A revelation.

_“I love you, John Watson.”_

The most brilliant truth of all.

**_“Thank you for loving me.”_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Hope that was relaxing for you all. 
> 
> Is laserized a word? Probably not, but I'd argue I made it work for me. It's 2021 kids, take your semi-imaginary words and dubious sentence structures and just run with them into poetic, smutty glory. At the end of the day all that matters are the feels we made along the way, or something like that.


End file.
